


Life in the Key of C-Sharp

by thalialunacy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Classical Music, F/F, M/M, Music, Musicians, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4562484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One does not, in Arthur's defense, expect to find angelic violin playing, as done by a personage what looks like he could've been delivered by the angels themselves, in the bowels of Paddington station on a wintry Monday evening. One just doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life in the Key of C-Sharp

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovely_narcissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovely_narcissa/gifts).



> Rated: teen+ for f-bombs and one joke.
> 
> Disclaimer: My degree is in voice, not violin, so there's a certain amount of artistic license and hand-waving. Also, these characters' likenesses belong to Shine & BBC, no harm no foul.
> 
> Warnings: It's a fluffy rom-com, but there is Uther being a homophobic/sexist dick, and an offscreen very minor OC death.
> 
> Thanks: To my wonderful artist [deermepadfoot](http://deermepadfoot.tumblr.com)/[lovely_narcissa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lovely_narcissa) for such delightful art!! And for Britpicking voluntarily, which was a freaking lifesaver, and just for being so generally awesome to work with. (Any remaining errors/Americanisms are my poor choices.) To my English bestie norfolkdumpling for hating tea and holding my hand. <3 One bit stolen from alby_mangroves, another from _Sports Night_ , and another from _Finding Nemo_. Hearts to E-Flat (the person, not the note) for immediately knowing which Brahms symphony to use. And my undying devotion to Canon_Is_Relative, without whom I never, ever would've made it through this alive.
> 
> Musical selections can be found at the end. :D

Arthur might--perhaps--if you catch him off-guard and--maybe--in a good mood, admit that the first time he saw Merlin, he was slightly out of his mind on cold medicine.

Hence his assumption that he was imagining things.

But one does not, in his defense, expect to find angelic violin playing, as done by a personage what looks like he could've been delivered by the angels themselves, in the bowels of Paddington station on a wintry Monday evening. One just doesn't.

Only, don't tell anyone the bit about the angels. Because Merlin would never, ever let him live it down.

\---

_FOOTIE SATURDAY?_

Arthur glances at his phone, then grunts in annoyance. He's embarrassed for a moment, but the station is crowded and nobody seems to have heard him. His normally-nimble fingers feel clumsy on the mobile's screen. _Please don't shout at me when I'm this hungover AND YOU'RE THE ONE THAT CAUSED IT._

_Now who's shouting? I CAN'T CAUSE THE FLU, MATE,_ is the bullshit he gets back. Gwaine is the worst person Arthur's ever met.

_Weren't you the one who told me my thirties would be a time of endless christenings and two-day hangovers?_

The reply is swift and annoying, but at least doesn't involve capslock: _Well, yes, but I assumed you wouldn't listen._

_I'm not listening now._

_I'm aware. Which means I'm not going to tell you to take a sick day tomorrow. So. Saturday?_

Arthur feels his teeth grinding. At least he thinks he does. He hasn't been able to taste anything all day. _Piss off._

He nearly mis-steps on his way off the escalator as he forces his tired eyes to switch focus from phone to pavement. It's five pm, or thereabouts, and he still feels as though he's been run over by something. Something large and squishy. Despite the amount of Day Nurse in his system, despite drinking ludicrous amounts of fluids all day and having a scarf round his neck even though it's eighteen degrees outside.

He rolls his shoulders a little as he waits for the train, but it does nothing to assuage the ache that feels as if it's permeated his very bones. He doesn't even have the energy to tap his foot in impatience per usual. That, really, should be the proof that it's not a hangover.

But Arthur Pendragon is a very stubborn man.

\---

He sees Merlin before he hears him. With most, one should think, it would be the other way round, but Arthur, despite his father's best intentions, is not quite like most.

Oh, he has _heard_ him, technically speaking; it has aurally registered in his consciousness that amongst the bustle and ludicrosity coming from the general masses there is someone playing music, assumedly on a boombox, but beyond that his mind does not wander. It summarily dismisses it, in fact. Arthur likes classical music like he likes good wine and delicate china: he can appreciate the craftsmanship, but mostly it's for decoration.

Until he sees the violin player.

"Speaking of decoration…" he finds himself saying aloud. Though hoarsely, thankfully, due to this not-flu. And it isn't as if anyone would notice in the station. When you look as much of money as Arthur Pendragon, you can get away with rather a lot.

So he lets himself look. And then, once his ears cotton on -- He lets himself listen.

For it's very good playing, as far as Arthur can tell, crisp and nimble yet evocative. Good enough that he finds himself coming to a stop about eight feet away from the man, a pillar preventing him from being completely offsides. 

And he stands there through the piece. It's the cold-medicine, it's the crowd, it's the empty flat waiting for him, it's-- Oh, honestly. It's the music. The tune is sad, but so beautiful, and Arthur feels an ache in his heart he hasn't thought about in a very long time.

And then there's the musician. Arthur studies him, automatically cataloguing good features (excellent bone structure, flawless skin) and not so good (what on earth are those ears?) and taking note of the clothes (no one needs a hoodie that giant, or jeans that unkempt) and the posture.

The last one gives him pause. It's at odds with the clothes, and at odds with the setting. But not at odds with the playing. How this bloke isn't a professional-- Well, Arthur amends, a _real_ professional; there are coins and notes in the open violin case laid out in front of him, but not enough to buy a sandwich at Pret, let alone pay rent for any real amount of time.

Curiosity piqued, Arthur steps forward to look at the case, in which (completely predictably) is propped up a piece of cardboard. 

_SAVE THE EALDOR SYMPHONY_ , the block letters read. _THANKS!_

And there's a sodding _smiley_ face. Arthur barely refrains from a snort, trying not to be charmed.

When he finds himself taking the same path to the same train at the same time the next day, aware of sounds in a way he hasn't been before, ears open without his permission, he knows he has failed. He _is_ charmed.

He has a feeling he is, in fact, doomed.

\---

The only thing he does once he gets home that first night, though, is fall into bed. Well, he manages to get his suit off and his plants watered and his teeth brushed, and is in his pyjamas and about to call it a night when his phone buzzes.

It's a text from his half-but-only-in-biology-sister, Morgana. He flops back onto his bed.

_Gwaine says you're ill_ , it begins. _Do say it's not serious and you can come to the fundraiser on Saturday._

His Saturday is suddenly rather booked, it seems. _Evening or matinee?_

_Evening. Don't worry, you won't miss your precious masculinity display._

He rolls his eyes, despite her not being in the room. _What if I said I was too ill?_

_I'd send Gwen._

Arthur groans and turns his face into his pillow. Gwen, Morgana's much, much better half, is about eight stone soaking wet but can turn Arthur on his ear in about twenty seconds, at least figuratively speaking. She's just so bloody _good_. She makes Arthur want to be as good. Half as good. A quarter.

There's a buzz in his hand. Arthur opens one eye. _Excellent choice in reply. See you at The Rail at 6 for drinks._

_Harlot_ , he types, but doesn't send. He's too tired for such banter.

_And bring a date this time, will you? Having a third wheel is so awkward._

Arthur throws his phone at the foot of the bed.

\---

The second day, Tuesday, there's not as much cold medicine swimming in his veins. Not quite. But he stops all the same, setting his briefcase down without thinking about it. This time, after a particularly acrobatic bit of music ends, he even finds himself clapping.

...which earns him a startled glare from the performer. Whose eyes, Arthur can now see for the first time, are an unreal shade of blue, sort of like Arthur's own, but-- but not.

The shade he's throwing Arthur is fierce, though. Arthur makes a face back, reflexively, like they're seven and in a theatre where they're not allowed to speak.

And much to his surprise, the performer lowers his instrument with a laugh. "You--"

But he doesn't finish his sentence. "I…?" Arthur prompts, flashing his best 'you don't know me but you want to' grin. Or at least trying. He's still not at the top of his game, all right.

The violinist presses his lips together, pushing down a smile, and shakes his head. "You're clearly not a symphony-goer."

"I've been," Arthur protests.

"Have you ever stayed awake through the whole programme?"

"...well. No."

"Mm-hmm."

"But to be fair, my sister makes me go and she always plies me with cocktails first and--"

The violinist is back to laughing, and Arthur finds himself flushing slightly. He's not sure where this verbal vomit is coming from; he's usually much more eloquent. He charms boardrooms full of uptight English businessmen for a living, after all.

The man must sense his discomfort. "It's all right," he says, sobering a little. "I can't stand it sometimes, either."

Arthur rocks back on his heels a little. "Ah."

An eyebrow gets cocked at him. "'Ah'?"

Arthur shrugs. "Well, yes. It makes sense, then, why you're--" Arthur trails off, gesturing around at the scenery.

He gets a small nod, after a moment. "Ah, indeed. So you want to know what you did wrong?"

Arthur frowns. "Beg pardon?"

The bow waves around vaguely. "Before. When I stopped playing, but I didn't put my violin down, and yet you clapped."

"And?"

"Don't do that."

"Don't clap?"

"Don't clap _then_."

"You do realize that sounds mad."

The man shrugs, though only with one shoulder, the shoulder that doesn't support his instrument while playing. "The kids at school did call me Merlin the Mad."

Arthur does snort out loud at that. "What for?"

"Because that's my name?"

Arthur blinks.

"The Merlin part, at least. But really, don't clap unless the instrument is put down. If my posture still says, 'Yes, I'm playing,' even if I may not be, in fact, playing at that very moment, it's just a break between parts, between things called 'movements,' not the end of the piece. And it's rude to clap."

Arthur feels his brows draw together. "Rude?"

A corner of the man's mouth goes up, and Arthur swears there's a twinkle in his eye. "Wouldn't want to distract me, now, would you?"

The twinkle morphs into him looking Arthur up and down thoughtfully. Appreciatively. "Any more than you already have, that is."

Arthur, he has to admit, is taken aback. Here he is, tired and still a bit ill, in a bloody _tunnel_ , being _flirted_ with by a stunningly good-looking man in a cardigan that looks like a hand-me-down from a grandfather. A man called _Merlin_.

Fate's having a laugh at him, he's sure of it.

And he's got just enough cold medicine in his system to give it two fingers.

Yes. Cold medicine. That's to blame for what he next says:

"My name is Arthur, and I'd like you to have coffee with me."

This time it's Merlin's turn to look taken aback. "Erm."

"I'll buy." He glances down at the opened violin case meaningfully.

Merlin laughs, still a little disbelieving. "It's six o'clock."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"In the evening."

"Decaf, then."

"You're mad."

"What's that saying? 'It takes one to know one?'"

"That is a saying, yes."

"Then we'd make quite a pair."

Merlin considers him. "One condition," he says finally.

"I can negotiate."

"I pick the place."

"Done."

Merlin looks overly pleased with himself. He doesn't realise Arthur doesn't know or give a toss about coffee, or hot drinks in general. "Excellent. Just let me…"

And Arthur watches as Merlin puts his violin away with such fluid and practiced grace it's almost unreal. Arthur is certain he doesn't look as effortless even when he's asleep.

"How long have you been playing?" he asks as they fall into step towards the escalator.

"Since I was about six."

"About?"

Merlin shrugs. "My mother says I was seven, but then again she also says she's blocked out most of my childhood."

Arthur must look a little horrified, because Merlin laughs. "She worked hard, my mum. She's all I had. And she got me lessons, and kept getting them for me, when music became my life." He pushes a shoulder into Arthur's lightly with a teasing smile. "She did right by me, don't fret."

"Who said I was fretting?" Arthur says reflexively, but Merlin just laughs, and Arthur tries not to flush. "How far is this place, anyway?"

Merlin gestures. "Just down the way. Part of the reason I set up shop at Paddington today."

"I see."

"My flatmate Will works there."

Arthur carefully doesn't look at him. "Flat mate?"

"Yes. Known him since we were small. Closest thing I've ever had to a brother. I'm due to be his best man soon, even."

"That's nice."

Arthur could swear Merlin snorts. "Sure it is. And here we are." He reaches out to push a shop door open. Then he waits for Arthur to precede him. Arthur hesitates, used to being the door-holder, and Merlin sweeps a hand out in a flourish. "Your Highness…"

Arthur coughs a laugh. "Nobody's called me that since I was ten and my sister discovered there were much more subtle and interesting ways to torture me."

"Yeah?" Merlin nods to the counter as he throws his case down (rather ungently, Arthur feels) next to a squashy chair near the window. "All right, Will?" he says loudly.

A person appears behind the counter, pretty average bloke, but with a nice smile. "All right, Emrys. The usual?"

"Yeah, fine," Merlin replies, then looks towards Arthur. "And for Arthur here…"

Arthur tries not to feel like a cad. "Oh, sorry, nothing, thanks."

Merlin cocks his chin at him. "Not a coffee fan?"

"Not really."

"That's deeply hilarious, considering you asked me here."

"Well, not here, specifically--" Arthur deflects.

"Tea, then? Are you that daft English?"

"Erm. Yes, I am, but no, thanks. No tea, either."

"No tea, either?" He raises his head a little and calls across the room. "Will, I've found you a soulmate."

Will laughs over the sound of the steaming milk. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. He has a distinctly anti-hot-beverages stance."

"Then he is clearly a man of taste and discernment."

"Like I said."

Will considers. "Freya might have a thing or two to say about the soulmate bit, though." He glances at Arthur in between pourings. "Which is a shame, because he is pretty fit."

Merlin points a finger at his flatmate. "Yeah, and I saw him first, so no having a big gay crisis over him. It would just end badly."

Will sets a drink on the counter, nodding solemnly. "Duly noted. Now drink."

Merlin looks down, and then throws his head back in a hearty, warm, ridiculous laugh. Arthur's stomach turns over. In that good way.

"What is it?" he asks as Merlin gets back to their corner and their (mismatched, the place is about as bohemian as they come) chairs.

Merlin gestures. "Will's idea of art is decidedly juvenile."

And when Arthur looks down, he can't help but let out a laugh as well. There, in the foam of Merlin's coffee, is a perfectly recognizable cock and balls.

Arthur pulls an overly thoughtful face. "Actually, that's a pretty good likeness. You're sure he's straight?"

Merlin laughs into his mug. "Certain, yes."

"Childhood escapades?"

"So many of them, you don't even want to know."

"I might do."

And Merlin looks at him, and he holds his gaze, and there's such a-- such a _thing_ in that moment, that Arthur is simultaneously elated and terrified.

He ignores both and moves on. The conversation flows light and bantery, mostly discussing Merlin's history with music because Arthur is fascinated. It's all very foreign to him, but it's plain as rain that it is Merlin's life, and his enthusiasm is contagious.

All goes well, exceedingly well, until they're out the door and standing awkwardly in the damp night air.

"I'm headed this way," Merlin says, pointing with a thumb.

"And I the other," Arthur says, gesturing towards the opposite path.

"Alright, then." Merlin faces him. "It was a lovely coffee, Arthur."

Arthur can't take his eyes off him. At the cheekbones and the eyes and the violin case like an extension of himself, an extension of those gorgeous hands… "Yeah…"

He hesitates, and Merlin speaks quietly. "What?"

Arthur clears his throat. "I was just…" _Balls_. "Look, may I kiss you?"

Merlin's eyes twinkle, but suddenly he's closer to Arthur and Arthur has to exhale. "I hardly know you."

"You know my name and that I don't like hot beverages. And that your mate Will thinks I'm fit."

"Your first name. I know your first name."

"Pendragon," Arthur supplies immediately. It's not like a random musician is going to associate anything with the name, afterall.

Merlin's smile falters, though, and Arthur regrets it immediately. "Arthur Pendragon? Your name is Arthur Pendragon?"

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

Merlin shrugs. And then he leans forward and kisses Arthur on the mouth.

Arthur is still for about half a moment, then he is on track and on point. He reaches up and catches the sides of Merlin's face in his hands, absently noting cold cheeks and soft, if slightly tangled, hair.

They kiss for a while, or at least what seems to be a while, and Arthur is displeased when Merlin pulls back.

He keeps one hand where it is. "Come with me to a fundraiser on the weekend?"

Merlin blinks at him. "What sort?"

"Interesting that that's your first question."

"Well, I don't know, you could be fundraising for the UKIP, for all I know."

"I'm not sure they call those 'fundraisers'."

"Fair point."

"So will you?"

Merlin smiles. "No, thank you."

Arthur's hand falls to his side, and he has to recalibrate. "No… thank you?"

"My mother raised me to be polite."

"But I thought--"

There are fingers on his chin, long lovely capable fingers. "Arthur Pendragon," Merlin says, his voice low and kind, "you are lovely, but this would never work out. So don't let's fuss."

He kisses Arthur again, and it's so full, so poignant, so bloody _good_ that Arthur has to fight to draw breath afterward. Has to fight to let go of Merlin's hand where their fingers have somehow got intertwined. Has to clench his jaw and force himself to watch Merlin walk away after a little wave and a brilliant smile, chin dipping into the terrible scarf wrapped round his neck.

For the first time in a while, Arthur _wants_ something, just for himself, for selfish reasons. Wants something so badly it hurts.

\---

He's late out of the office Wednesday, after a dull yet aggravating meeting with his father, so he practically skids into station and down to Merlin's usual spot… only to find it empty. Devoid of the gangly violinist that had filled Arthur's thoughts all day. He'd been writing a speech in his head while he'd been writing figures in reports, a speech about tenacity and chemistry and chance and good life choices, and he'd got it down to quite a good solid paragraph, if he does say so himself.

But the intended audience of one is nowhere to be found.

His stomach feels leaden as he steps onto the train for home. He tries to mentally course-correct, chastising himself and reasoning why it's a good idea to let it lie. To keep the violin player strictly down to an idea in his mind, a moment in time that he'll look back on fondly.

He's almost convinced himself by the time he's got his key in the front door. Then his mobile rings, his sister's picture flashing on the screen.

"Yeah," he says, juggling phone, keys, door, and briefcase.

"How was the meeting?"

"Terribly boring. Father is downsizing the life out of everything and it's all I can do to sit by and watch it happen."

"One more year, Arthur."

"I know," Arthur heaves out on a sigh as he fwumps down onto the sofa. He reaches up to loosen his tie. "But it's fucking terrible in the meantime. Why can't he just retire _now_?"

"Is poor ickle Arthur tired of being the overpaid golden boy heir apparent?"

"You're the worst."

She tuts. "That was weak."

"Sorry, I'm tired and nursing a bruised ego."

She immediately perks up at that. "Oh? Did someone turn you down?"

"Yes. And then he..." He stops, realising how utterly ridiculous he sounds. _He wasn't waiting on the tube to play violin for me?_ Arthur scoffs into his phone.

But Morgana is the least likely person to let it go, and Arthur knows it. "He…?" Her tone makes it clear there will be no negotiations. And no survivors.

His head falls back on the cushion. _Fuck it_. "He wasn't waiting on the tube to play violin for me," he says, resignedly.

She splutters. Morgana, who is never ruffled, splutters. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, you lunatic."

"You've been turned down by a bloke playing violin on the tube?"

"Yeah."

"Tall, thin, ridiculous ears? Ridiculous _name_?"

Arthur sits up. "How on earth did you know that?"

But Morgana's too busy laughing. And laughing. And laughing.

Arthur pulls the phone away from his face and counts to twenty.

Finally, she starts talking again, though through hiccoughs. "I might know him."

"Like… Biblically?"

That gets a (very ladylike) guffaw. "He's a friend of Gwen's actually, from uni."

Arthur sits back again. "Why does that not surprise me?"

"Because they're both brilliant artists with an eye for beauty and excellent taste in romantic partners?"

Arthur nods solemnly. "Can't fault you there. Or, couldn't if he'd actually agree to go out with me."

The laughter starts again.

"You're so rude," he says, heaving up off the couch with intentions at getting a drink.

"And you're so _stupid_ sometimes."

"Rude," he reminds her.

"Arthur, he has a point."

"In what way?"

"You know nothing about music."

"What does that matter? He knows nothing about _my_ job, after all."

"Yes, but it's not your life passion to be a minion of your father's. It's in his _blood_ to play, Arthur."

Arthur contemplates his kitchen island. "So you're saying…"

"Figure it out, Arthur. Draw up a strategic plan, make flowcharts, set up a PowerPoint presentation."

Arthur shifts his gaze to his briefcase, wherein lies his laptop. "Yes, I'm sure my skill with slides would win him over."

"If they were about Bach, maybe. He loves Bach."

The laptop boots up quietly. "Well, that's nice. He's also disappeared and I've no way to find him. Unless Gwen is willing to help me be a creepy stalker."

"You don't need Gwen for that. You need the internet."

"Beg pardon?"

"You're not the only one who's noticed him, Arthur."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying there's a hashtag."

Twenty minutes later, Arthur has seventeen tabs open, is well on his way to having enough information for twenty PowerPoint slides, and is very pleased with himself indeed.

He's always loved a good battle plan, after all.

\---

He maybe obsessively checks the hashtag all day. Work is dull, thank goodness, and Arthur compensates for professionally spinning his wheels by personally charging full-speed ahead.

When he heads out of the building, he feels the ridiculous urge to whistle. He tamps it down, and it goes away. London bustles around him, tourists shouting languages he doesn't understand (and a few he does) and getting in the way of everything, per usual, but he keeps his eyes on his mobile and takes no notice.

He does have to wander around a bit, because the internet can be a total bitch like that, but eventually he hears the dulcet tones. Or, not all that dulcet. It's a rather un-pretty piece, to be honest, but Merlin clearly loves it and Arthur recognizes it from the playlist of classics (that's what the title had promised, at least) he'd had running on his phone all day.

He approaches quietly, hands in his pockets. Merlin is aware of him, he's certain, but doesn't acknowledge it. When the piece is over (for certain over this time), Arthur claps politely. "That's Bartok, isn't it?"

"I--" As planned, Merlin looks positively gobsmacked, putting his violin down but letting his bow hang by his side. "How did you know that?"

Arthur holds up his phone. "Research."

"You… researched violin pieces?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"In between counting piles of money?"

Arthur laughs, genuinely amused. "I have an accountant that does that for me, but thanks for the image."

"Of course you do. Yes, it's hard to believe you researched violin pieces."

Arthur shrugs. "I'm full of surprises. As are you, what with the change of scenery."

"I…" Merlin hedges, poking at his violin strings. "I felt like it."

"Hey, I'm not judging. It's nice up here. Fresh air." He gestures at the London smog. "Real people." And the great dirty crowd.

The corners of Merlin's mouth turn up. _Excellent_. Then he looks up at Arthur, his brow a little furrowed. "And you just happened upon me?"

Arthur rocks back on his heels. "Yes, well, I wandered around all the streets of London-town until I heard your sweet, sweet music."

"Now, if you're just going to take the piss--"

"You have a hashtag," Arthur puts in.

"I-- What? I have a what?"

"You. Have. A. Hash. Tag."

"You say that as if repeating the words is going to help me understand them, when in fact--"

"Social media? Instagram? Twitter?" He takes two fingers from each hand and slaps them together. "Hashtag?"

"And my name? Or does it just say, like, Big Eared Violin Bloke, or something?"

"No, just MysteriousLondonViolinist."

"Oh."

"Seems rather plain, I agree."

"Well--"

"Should be Mysteriously Handsome Violinist Who Won't Go Out with Arthur Pendragon."

Merlin throws his hands up, the bow clenched tightly in his fist. "I don't get you!"

Not the response Arthur had expected, by a long shot. "Beg pardon?"

"You're like-- You're like C-sharp!"

"Erm…"

"Not the note, the key," Merlin says, as if that explains it. Arthur hasn't the faintest idea why the distinction is necessary. Weren't keys the bits on the piano?

But Merlin does not take his confused look as a reason to discontinue ranting. "You're a pain in my arse, to start with. You're tricky and strange and if I could just flip you round to D-flat then I'd be able to suss you out, but as it is--"

His hands fall back down to his sides.

"Why do you keep showing up here, anyway?"

"I would've thought it rather obvious."

Merlin eyes him, and Arthur wonders how he has the right to look so terribly confused. Arthur's not been exactly subtle, here. "Yes, but-- You-- _You_..."

"Me? Me what?"

Merlin stops, shakes his head as if at himself, then reaches down for his violin. "Forget it. You going to listen today?"

Arthur, slightly discomfitted, but not willing to give up just yet, glances at his watch. As if he has anywhere to be. "Might do."

"You won't like this one," Merlin warns.

"Should I take it personally?"

Merlin snorts as he settles the violin under his chin. "If you're still here when I'm done, I'll let you know."

And he proceeds to play the most bizarre piece yet. It bounces from hurting Arthur's ears to making him lean in closer to catch the next note. It's weird, and he feels weird, and he's not sure he likes it.

But Merlin does, he can tell. There's an affection in his playing. When he goes from one bit-- _movement_ , Arthur reminds himself--to the next, the pause is pregnant, not restful.

When he's done, Arthur forgets what he's supposed to do. It's been such a strange fifteen minutes.

The awkwardness is finally broken by Merlin's sigh. "Not to your taste, I suppose."

"No!" Arthur answered immediately. "I mean, no, it wasn't, but then it was, and I'm-- What _was_ that?"

"Believe it not, it was written by an Englishman."

Arthur's face undoubtedly shows his disbelief.

"We're not all Purcell and Dowland," Merlin huffs.

"Who?"

Merlin shakes his head ruefully. "His name was Benjamin Britten, and he was a queer Pacifist in the mid twentieth century and if I get into it any further I will probably start to weep like a small child and we're sort of in public." Merlin's rubbing the back of his neck, his bow all stuck out behind him. "So I'd rather not."

"You can tell me Saturday, then," Arthur counters doggedly.

Merlin looks at him, eyes wide. "You never give up, do you?"

Arthur shakes his head. "Not yet."

Merlin keeps looking at him. "Well. After this weekend, if we see each other again, we can talk about it then."

Arthur doesn't like the tone Merlin's got. "Why after the weekend?"

"Arthur."

"Merlin," Arthur shoots back. "Merlin, I like you."

Merlin sighs, putting his instrument back under his chin. "You're daft."

"They tell me I'm quite clever, actually."

"I'm sure they do."

And he starts to play again. It's Bach, Arthur thinks, because it sounds like maths. But what the hell does he know?

He knows maths, that's what he knows. And he knows, because he's a stubborn bastard, that he'll be back tomorrow.

\---

He barely makes it. He's had to put out fires at the office all day, and then had to sit through yet another session where his father is an absolute bastard and he can't say much about it.

Uther's latest cuts are to their philanthropic ventures, from orphanages to agricultural societies, and Arthur had to bite his tongue harder than he ever has before. It's bullshit, it's utter bullshit, but Arthur hasn't figured out a way to gracefully point that out. And by 'gracefully' he means 'without losing his inheritance and the future of the company in one fell swoop.'

So when he makes his way to St Pancras (bless that hashtag) it's with a heavy tread and a distracted sort of weariness. But he goes. Because he's become rather used to it. And it's better than the alternative.

And it turns out to be the best medicine he could've found. He finds Merlin in a corner, more secluded than normal, and the case has fewer coins to show for it. But Merlin seems happy, if contemplative.

Arthur stops just beyond conversational distance. He doesn't think he has it in him tonight to be clever.

Merlin's playing something soft and kind, something that sounds like yearning and warm nights, and Arthur finds himself relaxing. Filling in the spaces he's tensed himself out of.

It ends on a whisper. Merlin pauses, then his violin comes down slowly, gently. Arthur exhales, and the dust of his day--week--life--settles. Finally.

"I didn't know if you'd come today," Merlin says quietly, glancing at him.

Arthur shrugs, plays nonchalant for about a second before meeting Merlin's gaze. "I found my feet leading me here."

Merlin seems to consider his response. "And I am glad that they did." He slowly, without speaking further, puts instrument and bow away. Arthur just watches, and listens absently to the hum of life around him.

Then Merlin straightens. "Walk me to my train?"

Arthur doesn't hesitate. "Lead the way."

It's only about a hundred feet away. Neither of them notice.

\---

Saturday dawns foggy and damp, which is perfectly fine with Arthur. Suits his mood, and besides, football is sweaty enough without added sunshine.

The match goes as expected, with Gwaine tackling everyone every chance he gets and everyone calling him rude names in return as they end up in a laughing pile of grass and dirt. Arthur has no idea which side wins, at least not until they get to the pub afterwards and Gwaine demands payment.

'Pickled eggs and pints all around!'

Arthur groans dramatically, a grin spreading across his face, and slaps down his credit card.

\---

He spends most of his post-match shower contemplating how he can get out of going to this fundraiser Morgana's press-ganged him into. His heart's just not in it tonight.

As if she's psychic, Gwen rings him just after he's toweled off.

'I know you don't want to go,' she says without preamble, 'but I really couldn't stand it if you didn't. The Arts Council needs your public support. Really, great big amounts of it.'

'No need to make puppy eyes at me, Guinevere. I've said I'll go, so I'll go.'

'I know you will, Arthur,' she says quietly, fondly. Then she pauses.

'Out with it.'

'Well. It's just that...I'm not sure how to say it.'

'Gwen. It's me. You know me.'

She lets out a small laugh. 'Yes, I do, and that's the problem.'

'Ouch.'

'Sorry,' she says, and she is, he can tell.

He throws her a rope. 'What are you thinking, that I'll fall asleep in my canapé?'

'There won't be food,' she corrects.

'Well then what the hell are we all going for?' he says dryly. 

'For enrichment,' she says hedgily, and he wants to bang his head against a wall.

'Gwen, I support these art things, _your_ art things, you know I do, but I just cannot promise to get overly enthused.'

'I know,' she says. 'I know, and usually I'm grateful that you show up at all. But. This one...' He waits. 'I really think you'll like this one, Arthur. If you just... keep an open mind.'

His eyes narrow. 'Are you two planning something?'

'No!'

'Right. You tell that harpy sister of mine that I will only be one person's trained monkey.'

'No, it's not like that,' she argues, dangerously near pleading. 'This one's all me. Do it...for me? Please?'

Arthur puts his head in his free hand with a heavy sigh.

Doomed.

\---

He makes a bargain with himself: He'll act the part, smile and schmooze and refrain from playing Clash of Kings on his mobile, but that doesn't mean he has to actually _listen_. He doesn't have to have suddenly grown a musical conscience just because some skinny violin player had kissed him. No matter how magnificent that kiss--and violin player--had been.

_Yes. This is a good plan_ , he thinks as he corrects his bow tie--and how ridiculous is that, a bloody formal event just for… Arthur suddenly realises he has no idea for whom he's promised to raise funds. He looks at himself in the mirror for a moment, head cocked, then he decides it doesn't matter very much.

As long as he's putting some good into the world to counteract his father, then it's worth it.

\---

And it's much easier than he expected, at least to start. Drinks involve a lot of nothing except work gossip from Morgana and the occasional glance from Gwen like he's a flight risk, and when Morgana directs the cab to a concert hall they frequent, he relaxes considerably. It can't be _that_ awful if there's a posh, ancient theatre involved. 'Performance artists' like places they can mess up, be rebellious in. This is a place for steadfastness. For tradition.

For the symphony, it turns out. Arthur doesn't give the marquee more than a glance, because it makes him think of Merlin. He doesn't look at the programme Morgana shoves at him, because it makes him think of Merlin. He wonders briefly if maybe Merlin will be in the audience tonight, but figures, somewhat brutally, that a musician playing on the street probably can't afford it.

Their seats are perfect, of course, center front first balcony, and Arthur's folded and re-folded the unread programme a hundred times by the time the lights actually dim. The artistic director of the symphony comes out, and starts talking, but Arthur has already started his strategic plan of 'not listening.'

Which lasts for about five minutes. At which point the artistic director makes to leave stage, saying something unintelligible about 'the concertmaster and prized gem' while waving a hand grandly at the tuxedo-clad chap that's entering the stage lights--

Who looks startlingly like a man Arthur's known for approximately five days and one hour, not that he's counting. A man called Merlin.

"Arthur?"

Morgana's voice is low, and it breaks the moment.

Blinking, Arthur finds himself sat forward in his seat, as if trying to get closer (which is problematic considering their position), the programme clenched tightly in his white-knuckled fist.

"It's him, isn't it." It's not really a question. "You knew."

He feels Morgana's half-shrug. "I am a bit evil."

"She is not," Gwen interrupts. "She just knew you wouldn't come otherwise."

"Of course not!" Arthur mutters. "He rejected me! Like, fifteen times!" Or two, but who's counting. "He's infuriating!"

"He's the concertmaster for the London Symphony, you twat."

Arthur spares her a glare, then his eyes dart back to Merlin, who's standing with his back to the audience, seemingly putting some spell on the orchestra. Arthur feels wholly out of his depth, which is not something he finds comfortable. "I don't know what that means."

"It means he's the best violinist in four countries and if you'd been paying any attention _at all_ you'd've asked why he was playing in the bloody _underground_."

Someone shushes them, which is not unusual, but Morgana's capitulation is. She rolls her eyes, then reaches for Arthur's hand and forces his fingers to prise apart, shoving the programme into his face. Again.

Arthur tries to focus. Brahms, it says they're playing. Merlin's not soloing or anything, but his bio is among the top few, and, more importantly, is connected to an essay about the purpose of tonight's concert.

It's an eloquent, yet somehow stern, plea for generosity. The funds gathered tonight are going to support an orchestra in a small town, the town Merlin's from, apparently, which is being undercut. Merlin makes it perfectly clear, without actually using the words, that the reason monetary support from big old names is disappearing is due to the fact that they just hired a new conductor. One who happens to be a woman.

_Save the Ealdor Symphony._

A single, horrible thought occurs to Arthur.

He wracks his brain, flipping through his mental filing system for that list Uther had trotted past him yesterday with a look of contained mirth, like it was just money to the old man, when--

Arthur finds his gaze on Merlin again.

When it's so much more than that.

The programme is in his lap, forgotten. He hears the sweet orchestral music in the background, he does, but he also hears his father's voice. _Poor choices in management._

And he feels like he might be sick.

\---

It's an excruciating hour and a half. There's an intermission, of course, but Arthur stays right where he is, Gwen at his side making it seem normal to anyone who might look down and wonder.

Really she's not saying much. Just holding his arm and telling him to breathe every so often. "You weren't to know," she says once.

"You're not your father," she says once after that. Her grip on him tightens, and he feels the warmth from it. It's small comfort, but comfort nonetheless. Then she's quiet, and so is he.

\---

The second half begins much the same, with an overly cheerful twenty minutes of Mozart. But then, lo and behold, the conductor nods, and Merlin stands up.

There are gasps from the audience. Classical music doesn't see too many mid-set changes, apparently, Arthur muses.

And there's no talking, they just launch into it. Arthur's not sure what he's expecting, but what happens is far from it. There's drums and horns and it doesn't really make any sense to his ears but there are these moments where Merlin is the only musician playing and you can hear a fucking _pin drop_ in the hall.

Arthur is certain they can hear his whole worldview shift, at the very least. His heart is beating so loudly, and he's so perfectly still, certain that moving will somehow ruin it, somehow break the spell.

For that is what they all are under. Every eye in the house is riveted on Merlin, for thirty-three and a half minutes, as surely as if he had magicked them there.

_Merlin._

When it's over, even Arthur can see the sweat on Merlin's brow, the relief in his posture, the triumph in his eyes. He holds up his bow--Arthur swears some bits of string have been snapped loose--and gestures around at the audience, acknowledging their adoration as they stand and clap for him. His face is pure joy.

All around Arthur is the sound of applause, thunderous wild applause, but he can't hear a thing. He just sees Merlin.

And somehow, when Merlin looks up again, his beautiful face awash with lights, Arthur's certain that Merlin sees him, too.

\---

When they reach the lobby afterwards, Arthur doesn't even try to pretend he's not looking around. 

That's probably what garners Morgana's pity. "How much do you love me?"

"Hmm?" Arthur spares her a glance, then looks again, confused by the softness on her face.

"He's in the Platinum dressing room," she says to him, pointing in the direction of the downward staircase, "and if you fuck this up, I will have Percy hide the body."

'Percy likes me,' Arthur counters out of habit, his eyes on the path she's just pointed out.

'Not as much as he's frightened of me, and you know it.' She kisses him on the cheek, then shoves at him. 'Go, you fool.'

And he can't say no to that, really. Even though his heart is threatening to jump ship and he feels like he's about to run a sodding marathon.

He stops when he gets to the bottom of the stairs. Rallies. _Pull yourself together, Pendragon. He's just a man. A gorgeous, talented, funny, brilliant man that for some reason likes you._

Despite Arthur's father ruining a bastion of his childhood.

The sick feeling threatens to come back. He squares his shoulders and doesn't give it a chance, pushing down the hall and into the maze of dressing rooms until he sees the little name-plaque that says 'Platinum'.

The door, unsurprisingly, is open. Merlin's laughter falls out of it, along with that of another, and when Arthur stops abruptly in the doorway, he sees Will and Merlin in a friendly embrace. There's lots of chest-slapping and hooting. Will is clearly delighted for his flatmate, and Merlin is just delighted overall.

Then he sees Arthur.

One shouldn't say his face falls, exactly. But the laughter certainly ends.

Will looks from one to the other. "Right. I'll just… be going."

Merlin gives him a look, embarrassment tinged with gratefulness. "Ta, mate. See you later."

And the look Will gives Arthur as he exits is polite, but not warm. Arthur gets it, he really does. He really, _really_ does.

The moment directly following is incredibly awkward. 

"Did you enjoy the show?" Merlin finally asks, somewhat formally, as he reaches up to untie his bowtie. He looks tired, now, Arthur thinks. Good, but wrung out.

He considers his words. "The first half was a bit hard to sit through, if we're being honest."

Merlin chuckles drily. "And are we?"

"Then this good-looking gent played some of the weirdest music I've ever heard."

"English. English music. And weird, yes."

"A bit like the bloke playing it, then."

"That answers the honesty question."

Arthur steps closer. "Merlin, you were stunning."

He doesn't really know how else to say it, and he's sure Merlin hears more effusive praise all the time.

But Merlin, bless him, is blushing. "Why are you here, Arthur Pendragon?"

"Since we're being honest, Morgana and Gwen."

"Ah, the dynamic duo."

"Indeed."

"They thought they could change your mind?"

"No-- It's not my mind, Merlin. It's my father's."

"And you have no choice in this?"

"No, I do, of course I do, but he's retiring soon and I figure if I just hold on--" He makes a frustrated noise. "It's complicated."

"It isn't, actually. You just need to find your way to doing the right thing."

Arthur tries not to be affronted. He fails. "Now, hang on just a minute. I didn't know until about an hour ago."

"And here you said you were clever."

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Even so, _you're_ the one who kissed _me_."

"I never said _I_ was clever."

Arthur suppresses a chuckle. "Fair point." He pauses. "Will you answer me one question, though?"

Merlin raises his eyes to the ceiling, then meets Arthur's gaze in the dressing room mirror. "I suppose."

"What were you doing on the tube?"

"Ah. Well. We got warned of it last weekend, of the money drying up."

'So you...started playing in train stations?'

Merlin shrugs with one shoulder. "Anywhere, really. It was kind of a social experiment, to see if people would listen. Would care. I moved around from day to day. I only stayed at the one place twice because--' His ridiculous ears redden. 'Because I thought you might come round again.'

Arthur is pleased, despite himself.

'But all week, there was hope. Then the final decision came down yesterday.'

Arthur winces. Good feeling gone.

But he is not going to quit without coming to his own defense. "I didn't know. I didn't. And I want you to believe that."

Merlin smiles, and it's a bit fond, though mostly sad. But there's no malice in his voice when he speaks. "I do believe you. You would never have been so kind, otherwise. But now you see." He gestures between them. "Why this wouldn't work, I mean."

Arthur steps closer, shaking his head, desperate to communicate something he couldn't possibly ever say. "All I see is you."

But Merlin puts up a hand. So Arthur stops.

Arthur stops but it thoroughly pains him. He feels a great opportunity, possibly the greatest in his life, slipping through his fingers.

He doesn't know what to do. So he does the only thing he can think of.

"I was fifteen," he starts. "I was fifteen when I first interned and got to see the company up close. I was also fifteen the first time I tried to tell my father I prefered other fifteen year old boys--or David Beckham, I wasn't all that picky." Merlin looks confused; Arthur puts a hand up. "I say 'tried' because… because the English stiff upper lip is not so much an outlier in my father's house as it is an _ideal_. A way of life. I didn't _not_ tell him. He just… pretended it had never happened. People like me were invisible to him, at least that part of them. Their relationships.

"As I stayed on with the company, as much as I could as a student, I noticed more and more that my father's hiring practices were a bit archaic. As I looked closer, I found out they were downright illegal, although of course he has a crack legal team to keep things looking presentable. Mostly, not to put too fine a point on it, his firing practices." Arthur clears his throat. "In my later teenage and uni years, I befriended an older gent of an employee, in Accounts, named Tom, who had been living with his partner Carl for years and years. He was like… he was like my gay granddad, told me stories of the sixties and made me read things like Isherwood and _Tales of the City._

"This was before the Civil Partnership Act, of course. Two days before, in fact, when Tom's partner passed away of kidney failure."

Merlin's sharp inhale is the only reason Arthur realises Merlin's stood and come closer. He soldiers on. "Tom had no legal rights. None. His partner's children swooped in and took it all, and he was shattered. My father… my father could've done something. Could've helped. Could've sent a fucking gift basket. But he didn't. He, in fact, went through a spectacular bout of 'cleansing,' somehow managing to find--or manufacture--legal reasons to fire every out employee he could. Including Tom."

He shrugs. "To say it was a wake-up call is an understatement. Since then, I've been planning. I've been learning how to run the business, learning everything possible. I've also been doing the best I can to influence Father where I can, but that's like pushing a boulder uphill, and some days putting one foot in front of the other is the best I can do."

He smiles, but there's little pleasure in it. "I have an app that's counting down the days until his retirement. I'll have the company, then. I'll be able to fix things. Then." He shakes his head. He hates this part. "But not right now."

There's a heavy moment. Merlin seems to be waiting for him to say something, but he has nothing more to say. "Anyway. I'm going to..." He thumbs over his shoulder, his other hand still in his trouser pocket. "I'll go. You deserve a night out with your mates." He meets Merlin's eyes one last time. "You really were magnificent tonight. A sight to behold."

"Arthur..."

Merlin's voice tugs at him, but there's hesitation there, too, and Arthur makes himself heed that.

He looks back one more time, gives Merlin one last smile. "Good night, Merlin Emrys."

And then he's gone. 

\---

Needless to say, he doesn't sleep very soundly that night.

\---

"Hello, Father."

"Arthur!" Uther seems pleased to see him, looking up from his breakfast and folding his Sunday paper. "Come, join me. Have some breakfast."

Arthur does, but only the first. "Thank you, but no. I'm not staying long."

"Oh?" Uther's curiosity is clearly piqued.

"It's about the list we went over on Friday."

"What about it?"

"I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit more about it. Speak to the decision with regards to one group in particular."

Now Uther's eyes narrow. "Which one?"

Arthur clears his throat. "The Ealdor Symphony."

Uther scoffs, and picks up his paper once more. "Oh, that. It was a ridiculous waste of money. Your mother always had a soft spot for them, I've no idea why. And I've had a soft spot for your mother, of course, but… times are hard."

"Harder for them," Arthur tries to reason, even though he knows it's fruitless.

"They'll find a new source." Uther's lip curls. "Undoubtedly their new _conductor_ \--" Arthur can practically hear the quotation marks. "--will be able to bat her eyelashes and get someone to fund them."

Arthur's mouth turns sour. He nods. "Yes, I'm sure they will." He stands. "Have a nice Sunday. See you at the office tomorrow."

Uther's barely paying attention by this point. The Sunday Telegraph always was his most constant companion."Yes, yes. Tomorrow."

Arthur manages to get out the door with the placid expression in tact. Then he makes a rather serious dent in the aluminum siding of the garage. His knuckles will smart tomorrow, but finds he doesn't care.

He gets about a hundred yards away from Uther's property before pulling out his mobile and swiping at the screen.

"Leon," he says brusquely when his personal financial advisor picks up at the other end, "I know it's Sunday, and I'm sorry, but I need you to work a miracle."

\---

The next morning, that particular Monday's morning, he's still arguing with Leon, but in person, in his office.

"It's madness, Arthur."

"I don't _care_." Arthur sets a file down on his desk rather forcefully. "What part of that don't you get?"

"The part where you're voluntarily cutting your salary by five hundred pounds a month," Leon says, mostly patiently, for about the fifteenth time. "And severely limiting your investment options for the foreseeable future."

But Arthur just shakes his head. "Whatever it takes." He looks up at Leon, and lets a little of his desperation bleed through. "Help me, Leon."

Leon considers him, but not for very long. Then he nods. "All right, then. Whatever it takes."

Arthur puts out a hand, and they shake. "You're a good man."

"As are you."

Arthur snorts. Then rubs a hand over his face. He's so tired of all of this. "I'm...trying," he finally hedges.

"My point exactly." Leon gathers up his papers and clicks his briefcase shut. "I'll have these drawn up for you by end of business today."

Arthur nods, already feeling lighter than he has in months. "Thank you. And please do keep this between us. I owe you."

Mostly out the door, Leon pauses and shakes his head. "Arthur, after today, you don't owe anyone a thing."

\---

He takes a taxi home that night. It's an extravagance he won't be able to afford much anymore, but he can't fathom facing down a Paddington Station with no Merlin in.

It's silly, really. Immeasurably idiotic, perhaps even. After all, he's only known the man a week.

But there's a reason Arthur is such a good businessman: Beyond a certain point of numbers and reasoning, he trusts his gut. And his gut says that he and Merlin could've been the real deal.

_Ah, well_ , he schools himself as he putters around his flat readying dinner. No use crying over it now. Or ever.

Then there's a knock on the door.

Arthur looks at it, surprised. Then he walks into the study and picks up his mobile, but there are no new notifications. He shrugs and moves back into the hall. 

When he looks out the peephole, he's too stunned to move for a second. Two seconds. Three.

The knock comes again. From Merlin. Merlin's knocking on his front door and Arthur's in his pyjamas about to have glorified pot noodle.

Suddenly he wants to laugh. When did this become his life, after all? It's all so unreal sometimes.

He opens the door instead.

And the smile on Merlin's face is so brilliant it might just light up the fucking room, clichés be damned. 

But that doesn't mean Arthur's not incredibly confused. "Merlin, what on earth are you--"

"No," Merlin says, advancing on Arthur and throwing the door shut behind him. "Shut up."

And Arthur finds his arms full of violin player, one who's kissing him with great skill and enthusiasm. "You," Merlin gets out in between kisses, "are an idiot."

A particularly hard kiss follows this pronouncement. Arthur's grip tightens, he can't help it. And when Merlin breaks away, he swallows back a whimper.

"Oh, you." Merlin presses his lips to Arthur's once more, lightly. "Why does this feel so--so normal?"

"Merlin," Arthur counters, his voice rough, "as much as I'm loathe to question it, what's the occasion?"

Merlin's expression is fond. "You've just practically funded my village's symphony out of your own pocket, Arthur Pendragon. Did you really think you could keep such a grand gesture a secret?"

Arthur's brows come together. "Well, I... Yes, actually." He had trusted Leon.

Merlin's shaking his head. "Morgana."

"But she couldn't've--" Arthur's eyes widen. "Oh God, of course, she oversees the Art Council's finances, and they would've known straight away."

Merlin nods. "She's not thick. And she knows you." He traces Arthur's jawline with those long, glorious fingers. "As well as I hope to, someday."

Well, Arthur has to kiss him after that. Thoroughly. And for a long while.

Finally, after they're both short of breath and feeling a little invincible, Arthur rests their foreheads together. "How is this real? Just a week ago, I was..." He gestures uselessly to the side. "I dunno."

Merlin chuckles. "I know exactly what you mean."

Arthur draws back suddenly. "And how did you even know where to find me? Don't tell me my sister has lowered herself to selling my address."

Merlin's mouth twitches a little bit. "Gwen… helped me be a creepy stalker."

Arthur very nearly growls. "Those meddling--"

Merlin kisses him before he can finish the thought. "Don't be rude. They might've meddled, but to good end. And, to be fair, you're not that hard to find."

Arthur tries to look stern and fails abysmally. He feels so...buoyant. Practically in a new tax bracket, but delighted by the result. "Says the man with a hashtag."

Merlin pulls a face. "Ylergh. I'm glad to be done with that now."

"No more free train station performances?"

Merlin shakes his head. And grins cheekily. "Something tells me our new benefactor might not approve."

"Absolutely correct," Arthur says firmly. "You are worth a hundred quid a seat, at least."

"Is that right? I can practically see the pound signs turning round in your head."

Arthur rolls his eyes, this time. "You berk." He kisses him once, then pushes him away. "Now go home, I was trying to eat my terrible dinner."

"Mmm," Merlin hums as he kisses him a few last times. "Come to mine at the weekend? I don't have any shows, I don't think. I'll make you a proper meal."

Arthur puts a hand to his heart. "And he _cooks_? That's it," he says mock-fiercely, pulling Merlin to him again, "you're not going _anywhere_."

\---

Merlin does cook, and he does cook for Arthur, eventually. The concert season is winding up for spring, which means Merlin is busy, and his studio (which, Arthur learns, means not a physical room but a body of students to whom Merlin gives individual music lessons) is ever-growing.

But one evening (a Sunday, after a matinee, where Arthur had been waiting for him in his dressing room with flowers and a lot of newfound music appreciation to show), Merlin brings Arthur over to his (spacious, surprisingly posh) flat, and cooks him carne asada.

"Carne what?"

"It's meat. You'll like it. Now shut up and let me cook."

Arthur salutes. "Aye aye, captain." And he goes to sit in the lounge with his tablet and a beer.

But then Merlin starts to hum. It's small and quiet, at first, but it grows to boisterous singing in a shockingly short amount of time. Arthur knows the tune, but it takes him a while to place it. It's...

It's Nicki Minaj.

Arthur, needless to say, is charmed beyond belief. He walks back into the kitchen and up behind Merlin, checking for sharp implements before sliding a hand around his waist and kissing under his ear lightly.

Merlin jumps slightly, then relaxes, bringing a hand up to slide into Arthur's hair.

"Hello, there."

"Hello," Arthur says, lips on what skin he can reach. "So you sing, too, eh?"

Merlin nods. Arthur feels it. "Every musician has to, to get through school. It's all very embarrassing," he adds with a minute shrug. "So you just have to own it."

"Is that so?"

"Mm-hm. I'm no Pavarotti, though."

"Maybe more like a Josh Groban?" Arthur says with a snicker.

Merlin turns just enough to tic him on the nose with the spoon he's holding. "I've met Josh Groban, actually. Nice chap. Bloody funny, too. Don't be a snob."

Arthur tightens his arms around him. "Says the man who maligned my love for Lindsey Stirling."

"Goggles, Arthur. Everybody has their limits."

Arthur pulls him round into a proper kiss. "Mm-hmm." Arthur has yet to find his limit with Merlin. He doesn't doubt he will some day, but it feels very far down the road and he's confident they can deal with it successfully when it comes.

For now, he's just falling in love.

"So," he says, peering over Merlin's shoulder at the sizzling skillet with a possibly somewhat obnoxious grin, "about that meat..."

**_fin_ **

**Author's Note:**

> First off, the art masterpost is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4684118) and you should go give the artist some love!
> 
> Big Bang Backstory: I saw the drawing of Merlin playing violin in the street and was instantly reminded of [Joshua Bell and his experiment](http://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/magazine/pearls-before-breakfast-can-one-of-the-nations-great-musicians-cut-through-the-fog-of-a-dc-rush-hour-lets-find-out/2014/09/23/8a6d46da-4331-11e4-b47c-f5889e061e5f_story.html). And the lovely artist was okay with that! So this story happened. Only with 200% more Benjamin Britten than Bell would ever use, I'm relatively certain.
> 
> THE MUSIC:  
>  _Monday_ :  
> The sad but beautiful tune: [Bach's Sonata for Violin Solo No. 1 in G minor, BWV 1001, 1. Adagio](https://youtu.be/v3aXbNnJ02E)/.  
>  _Thursday_ :  
> The playlist of classics: [Top 10: The best music for solo violin](http://www.sinfinimusic.com/uk/features/guides/repertoire-guides/top-10-the-best-classical-music-for-solo-violin#)  
> The rather un-pretty piece: [Bartok's Sonata for Solo Violin Sz117, III. Melodia Adagio](https://youtu.be/_Wmko5JQlU4).  
> The weird English piece: [Britten's Suite for Violin and Piano Op 6](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d-ScmYn87DQ).  
>  _Friday_ :  
> The piece that sounds like yearning and warm nights: [César Franck's Violin Sonata in A Major](https://youtu.be/c5bzrB5QbSY)  
>  _Saturday_ :  
> The sweet Brahms: [Brahms' Symphony No.4 in E minor](https://youtu.be/ckuUq7im8H4)  
> The overly cheerful Mozart: [Mozart's Symphony No 25 G minor K 183](https://youtu.be/Yazc2u6zdoo)  
> The weird English final concert piece: [Britten's Violin Concerto, Op 15](https://youtu.be/dDTIae06t6Y)  
>  _Extras_ : [the video that made me fall in love with Josh Groban](https://youtu.be/0Axzxe1a78E), and, of course, [Lindsay Sterling's goggles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jvipPYFebWc).
> 
> [and here's the [youtube playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLqtt3H2-pzIIk39N9Yhw65GuVNo8Jzr8_) if you're so inclined]


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